“And how do you suppose you will open a vein in his arm without him noticing?” Jane asked.
“I will make him a hearty dinner of turkey and quaaludes.”
“Do you know how to cook a turkey?” Jane asked.
“Not exactly. But he won’t notice with all the quaaludes.”
“No,” Jane said. “None of these ideas have merit.”
“Why not? The turkey idea is solid.”
“Because they all involve stealing your brother’s blood. I cannot take it from him. Let us return home, Sofia. If he will not give it to me, then perhaps I do the wrong thing by leaving.” They stood and walked to the door.
“Jane,” Fred said. He reappeared in the doorway.
“Fred!” Jane exclaimed. She went to him. Relief washed over her again. The sight of him made everything clear. “I do not care about this,” she said, pointing to the paper. “Each time you go, it tears my heart out. I do not want to leave you ever again. I will stay.” She smiled.
He took the pin from her and nicked his finger. A bead of crimson formed on his fingertip.
“No, Fred. Did you not hear me? I said I will stay. With you.”
“It’s not what I want,” he said. He held up his hand and offered it to Jane.
Jane hesitated. The drop of blood bloomed outward, eventually turning to a trickle that threatened to spill to the floor. She held out the manuscript scrap and caught the blood on the page. The fresh red drop merged with the old brown spot of her own and became one.
“Thank you, Fred,” Jane said in a voice gone hoarse. She looked down at her hands. She removed the ring with the turquoise stone and held it out to Fred. “Give it to someone who deserves it.”
Fred shook his head. “That ring belongs to my wife.”
Jane nodded. She wiped her eyes. “How does one say goodbye in the year two thousand and twenty?”
“The same way you always say it,” Fred said. “You hug them. You tell them you will see them again soon. Even if it’s not true.” His voice cracked.
“A true English goodbye,” she said, her voice breaking.
Jane hugged him. Little sounds exited her body, howling gasps, sounds she had never heard herself make. She destroyed them both by staying. It did not make it easier. “See you again soon,” she managed to say. The words came out in a croak. Sofia sobbed.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Fred whispered in her ear.
“It was,” she whispered back.
Jane broke away and stepped onto the pile of theater curtains. She held up the manuscript. “Take me to my one true love,” she said. She closed her eyes. Nothing happened.
Fred smiled and wiped his eye.
The room grew dark and something like snow began to fall.
“Fred,” she called out. He snapped his head up to her. Tears bathed his eyes. “If you ever want to see me, look for me, and you will find me. Do you understand? I will always be with you.”
He nodded.
The snow fell harder; the room spun.
“Say you will look for me,” Jane said. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” he replied, shaking his head in some confusion. “I will look for you.”
She transformed into an outline of dust and disappeared.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Jane opened her eyes. She sat in the woodsman’s cottage.
Outside in the forest, darkness fell. Moonlight lit her path back to town. Jane walked through the trees over a path of pine needles, and when she reached the edge of the forest, she looked up ahead. The Bath skyline rose in the distance. The roofs of the Crescent and the Circus punctured the sky. The Pump Room dome sat by the Avon. Smoke pumped from chimneys.
It rained. Jane’s curls plastered themselves to her forehead. Her pelisse was soaked. She reached Bath Abbey in the center of town, crossed Pulteney Bridge, and walked to Sydney Place. She stopped on the corner and watched.
The front of Sydney House hosted a crowd. Lady Johnstone waltzed around the gathered people, smiling and whispering to everyone. Mrs. Austen had a tear-stained face and spoke to a policeman. Jane heard herself gasp at the sight. No time had passed at all.
Jane took several deep breaths and hoped she inhaled sufficient air for what she was about to do, then she turned to the crowd and walked through it. Whispers and snickers rose from the throng. People pointed and stared at her. The policeman stopped writing in his notebook. “And where have you been, miss?” he said. The crowd hushed one another and seemed to wait with bated breath for Jane’s answer. Instead Jane ignored him and everyone else and walked inside the building. Mrs. Austen followed her.
Jane braced for an attack from her mother once inside the house. But one did not come. Mrs. Austen kneeled. “Stupid girl,” she whispered through sobs. She held Jane.
“I am sorry, Mama.”
Mrs. Austen walked Jane into the parlor. “You are soaked through,” she said. She called for the housemaid to fetch a cloth to dry Jane’s hair.
“I am glad you’ve come back safe, Jane,” a man’s voice said. Jane looked up. Reverend Austen leaned on the doorframe. His white hair hung loose and wet around his neck. He had lost the sole from his left boot. For once, he looked older than his more than seventy years.
Jane ran to him. “Papa,” she cried and sobbed into his shoulder. She almost tipped him over.
“Easy, girl,” he said with a wince. “All is well.” He patted her head.
Jane was racked with guilt. “Papa, I am sorry. You have been out in the wet and cold.”
“Hush now, Jane. I am well.” His hand shook as
